


graffiti

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28140984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Malcolm and JT work a case that brings them closer together.- - -“I’m going to have to turn off my flashlight.  Save the battery.”  Before JT shuts it off, he questions Malcolm.  “Why is your hair pink?”“I took a spray can to the face,” stutters Malcolm, teeth chattering and ears going hot with embarrassment.“Jesus, Bright.  He didn’t hit you in the eyes or mouth, did he?” asks JT before he laughs his ass off.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	graffiti

Psychogenic tremors make certain hobbies more frustrating than not. Malcolm Bright puts down the paintbrush pretty much on the same day as he picks it up, relieved when work calls.

“Hey, kid. Catch you at a bad time?” asks Gil.

Malcolm frowns at the mustard stain on his canvas that’s supposed to be Sunshine the parakeet.

“No better time, Gil. I am done painting,” says Malcolm. He drops the treacherous paintbrush in a jar of solvent and goes for his coat.

“You paint?”

“No, I’m done with oil paints. For good,” says Malcolm, before Gil asks if he can see any paintings. “What have you got for me?”

Malcolm hails a cab to an industrial block in the South Bronx. Green fence work papered with notices blocks off property in active development. The police cordon an empty paved lot between Bogart Street and Johnson Avenue. The temperature is so far below freezing that his inner ears throb and he breathes through his scarf to ward off a coughing fit.

Malcolm stops to admire free hand artistry bombed all over a cement wall. He doesn’t care for neons but the artist rendered a stunning glow cloud with radioactive green and atomic pink precipitating snow-white flowers, perfectly set off by wilted vines and browning leaves on the crumbling cement. The piece stands out against hazy black scrawl and dripping white obscenities. He snaps photos to admire later.

When he enters the lot, Malcolm regards the loose black tarp crumpled beneath construction rubbish on the corner of the lot closest to Bogart Street. She is abandoned with the dirty bricks, cracked cinder blocks, and wood scraps. The dyed red weave obscures her features, but her eyes maintain an inquisitive expression. Eye make-up gathers on her cheek like storm clouds.

Her pants lay where they fell at the time of her murder. She lies on her back garbed in her underwear and grime coated camisole. The foundation on her face and neck remains a deep golden-brown, but warmth and color are leeched from her chest and bunched up limbs.

“Bright,” greets JT. Malcolm catches the anger on JT’s pinched mouth before he withdraws into watchful neutrality. Murdered young women specifically get to JT. JT habitually stages a laidback vigil, forestalling his own assessment of the location, if no crime scene investigator pays her any attention. JT says nothing else when he leaves the victim to Malcolm. 

Malcolm steps around the numbered markers placed near the disturbed dirt where the victim was dragged alive and struggling. The shallow ruts curve a path toward Gil and Dani.

Edrisa approaches the victim while Malcolm crouches down to examine the victim’s skin. Victim has numerous small tattoos of garden variety flowers and black stars down her right arm. A gray anchor tilts on her upper left arm, surrounded by ocean waves styled like a Japanese woodblock print. A pair of fish dance together around pink lotus buds.

“I’d say this was pretty darn personal,” says Malcolm. He indicates the black marker chaotically scrawled over the flowers to blot out their beauty and X’d cartoonishly over the eyes of the fish. “Someone went through the trouble to vandalize this young woman’s body art.”

“The mortician will be able to dissolve the permanent marker,” says Edrisa. “Her art will be seen the way it’s meant to be, by her friends and family.”

“I don’t suppose you know off the top of your head if the koi fish mean anything? I’ve seen yellow or orange as popular choices,” says Malcolm. “Golden, as well, for plenty of fish.”

“Her choices were special,” agrees Edrisa. “The black koi and the white koi make me think of yin and yang. But what makes hers different is that the white koi has red spots on its skin and around its mouth.” She points at the koi with black scales. “Kumonryu koi can be death or change.” Then Edrisa’s gloved finger hovers over the white koi. “This one is… I want to say Kuchibeni koi. The red around its mouth is for deep love like for marriage. I think of it as the kissy fish.”

“Valid methodology of classification,” says Malcolm, smiling.

“I just happen to know this from when I researched tattoo ideas,” says Edrisa. “Would you like to look at mine? Where you put it has meaning, too.”

“Hold that thought,” says Malcolm when he sees Gil and JT. His nose and ears are red in the cold.

“We’re working on ID,” Gil tells them. He asks Edrisa, “Cause of death?”

“I’m leaning into exposure. We’ll likely find something in her tox,” says Edrisa. “No sign of restraints or defensive wounds or trauma to her airways. I’d say that poor girl was left out all night long.”

“She died here after her attacker dragged her into a hidey hole. Her toes are scraped and cut up. She resisted but her attacker was stronger. He could yank her around after drugging her,” says Malcolm. He double checks her feet and feels reassured by the toenails where the polish was likewise scraped off. “It’s possible that Jane Doe’s death was unintentional.”

“Based on the very distinct body art, you’ll get a match for the vic sooner when or if someone files a missing persons,” continues Malcolm. He crouches down before he gets on all fours, bending his neck to more thoroughly inspect the victim’s fingers and palms. “Edrisa, let me know what you retrieve from her hands. There’s miniscule dots of pigmentation which abruptly stop at her wrist. They’re very small but the colors, green and pink, are unusual.”

Malcolm looks over his shoulder, turning to speak with Gil. Instead, he catches JT staunchly avoiding Edrisa’s surprised expression. He files away JT’s behavior, delving his focus back to the Jane Doe. He considers the red indented lines behind her shoulders which can only come from straps. “Can I see her bookbag, please?”

“There wasn’t a bookbag,” says JT. “She’s not a high schooler.”

“There was. She was carrying enough added weight that you can detect the indents where the double straps were,” says Malcolm.

“Then she was robbed,” says JT, looking annoyed. “And anyone could’ve just seen her and took what they wanted.”

Their discussion is interrupted when the victim’s discarded pants buzzes. Edrisa fishes for the phone, as the only personnel with gloves. She picks up the call and Gil bends at the knees to get his ear and mouth on level.

“Hello? Hi. I’m police Lieutenant Gil Arroyo,” answers Gil. Somber, but direct, he tells the caller,” I’m sorry, but if you want to see her, we need you to identify the body. I’m sorry. Can you come in today?”

“Who was it? Her parents?” asks JT.

Malcolm’s eyes fall on the black koi fish. “Your suspect.”

“The boyfriend,” answers Gil at the same time.

* * *

Anthony Pierce is the victim’s boyfriend. He’s a young black man who displays the expected signs of grief, shock, and heartbreak.

“It’s Piers,” says the victim’s boyfriend. “Like where the water is. What happened to Skyla?”

JT establishes Piers’s alibi. At first, Piers raises JT’s suspicion with clipped answers, clearly fearful of revealing too much about his whereabouts. As JT sympathizes with the young man, Piers confesses that he was with two other individuals at a wharf, painting aquatic art and illegally tagging himself on commercial business properties. Piers phone contains pictures of the freshly painted sharks inside a tornado.

“You were with your friends Yogi and Winnie?” repeats JT. “I need their real names to clear you, guy.”

“They were friends with both of us. Me and Skyla.” Piers curses. “Damn, I gotta be the one to tell them. How do I even begin??” He gives up Yogi as Ursa Salazar and Winnie as Wynne Boyd.

“Any idea of what Skyla would be doing in South Bronx?” asks JT.

“I assume she was painting something. Skyla usually texts me progress shots when she’s really excited about an idea,” answers Piers. “I didn’t get any pics yesterday. Sky texted me back to tell me that Sharknado was dumb. So she knew I was at the wharf with our buddies doing my own thing.”

“Is Skyla often alone?”

“Kinda, yeah. I leave her be when she gets amped. She paints big and don’t stop until she cover the whole thing. She gets crabby if you’re in her way. She was…” Piers trails off. Then he asks brokenly if he can have Skyla’s bookbag.

JT apologizes, because he can’t give the heartbroken man the things or the life that was stolen away.

Malcolm reads over JT’s interview notes which include the lined yellow scrap paper that Piers drew on. Malcolm studies the koi fish floating alone. Lines on the yellow paper blur where teardrops, probably the boyfriend’s, landed.

Initially, Malcolm is worried that he isn’t needed for a run-of-the-mill murder. Gil explains that the death of Sheila Pierpoint, nickname Skyla, is possibly an escalation of a series of hazing attacks on street artists local to the Bronx.

Sergeant Moore meets with Major Crimes to offload each file on the survivors of the hazing attacks.

“Ramira Franqui. Goes by Franky,” says Sergeant Moore. Her file includes a picture of the Hispanic female. Photos include spray painted art of various horror monsters. Franky is very petite with a round face. “The attacker beat her up and left her in the cold. She was by herself and didn’t tell police that she was vandalizing a state building with spray paint when she first described the attack.”

Another victim was Adoncia Fulgencio, also a Hispanic female who is taller but very slight in build. “Donny wasn’t in the middle of doing her usual street art. She was, however, walking around Bushwick alone for inspiration on what to paint next. Because it was cold out, she didn’t think anyone would be around to bother her. The attacker beat the crap out of her and stripped her.” 

“Franky and Donny were attacked last winter. Neither of them had their bags or wallets stolen. They were beaten so brutally that neither of them could call for help on their phones. Good Samaritans called 911. Ten months later, we get the call for Pina Carballo. She was stomped, stripped, and the attacker spray painted ‘third' on her naked lower body. The number three, lowercase R, and lowercase D.”

“Pina was likely stomped because she was on the pavement, spray painting a picture of a wine bottle. Pina’s attacker used her own paint against her. This time, he taunted her. He stepped on her painting and then jumped on her breasts. We think he stole her shirt because the paint was still wet and the shoeprint visible on the fabric. Luckily, the paint bled through. We know he’s a size 10.”

Pina Carballo is a larger black woman. Malcolm notes her fierce eyes though the whites turned red from capillary bursts. He knows the attacker wouldn’t have confronted her if she hadn’t been immersed in creating her art piece. Smack to the head would’ve gotten her belly down within moments.

“Susana Davila fell down a fire escape. He didn’t get his hands on her. Nearly pushed her down four stories into the easement. Her screams didn’t fend him off until she thought fast and yelled out his physical description. That scared him off. Unfortunately, Susana claims she didn’t recognize her attacker. She was too traumatized to give us concrete details and we couldn’t get a sketch based on her inconsistent answers.”

Sergeant Moore scowls and shoves two cardboard boxes in their team’s direction. “We’re still investigating the attacks, but it’s a good lead for your homicide case.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll follow up on our own list of suspects, but we’ll look for commonalties and link up with you if we notice anything that doesn’t track,” says Gil. “Our consulting profiler will send you his work-up. If nothing else, maybe Bright can assist you and your team.”

“Luck to you. Let me know if you want to get in touch with the survivors. I wouldn’t recommend Davila. She’s pretty scrambled, not that I blame her. Her ordeal was a few weeks ago,” says Sergeant Moore.

Their conference keeps going after the police sergeant’s departure.

“It’s not the guy,” says Malcolm. “Sheila Pierpoint didn’t suffer blunt force injuries. Her killer didn’t crave physical violence. He didn’t hurt her more than what was necessary to subdue her.”

“Why drag her outside at all, then?” wonders Dani. “He wanted to hurt her.”

“Definitely. However, I’m pretty sure he just wanted to kill her spirit without murdering her. Sheila’s killer left demeaning marks on her skin. He drew over her tattoos. He mocked her by defacing the symbols which had significant personal meaning for her.” Malcolm’s hands wave around before he smooths his hair and straightens his suit jacket. “The women who were battered in Sergeant Moore’s cases didn’t know their attacker. Sheila did. She at least had one conversation with her killer, possibly her last, if she ate and drank with him. That was his means of insuring that she wouldn’t fight.”

Edrisa gets back to them with Sheila’s high blood alcohol level. She also calls JT and Malcolm to the mortuary, in order to show them the day glo stamp on Sheila’s inner wrist. The invisible ink fluoresces _Gobs_ beneath Edrisa’s colored light.

“Great, we know she was recently drinking at an establishment,” chirps Malcolm. When they look at him, he flubs. “I mean, well, it’s not great what happened after.”

Major Crimes tracks the invisible stamp to a watering hole in Brooklyn, business name Gobs Knobs. An inflated goblin's head with bulbous eyes and a hooked nose swings over the entrance door. It’s a small dimly lit tavern with a distinct wall fashioned with green clay hands posed in kooky fashion.

“We found your people, Bright. It’s a goddamn wall of chopped off hands,” teases JT upon their arrival. They walked through a labyrinth of food carts and mobile phone business stalls to reach Gobs Knobs.

“’allo! Welcome to The Cave!” greets the host. He's wearing an Oriental robe with a silken luster. He is a stout male with a long ponytail and a thinning pate. “I’m Santiago. Would you be interested in our lunch specials?”

“Hello, Santiago. I’m NYPD,” announces JT before he introduces himself as a detective.

“I’m with him,” says Malcolm before he likewise gives his name.

Santiago is thrilled that JT wants lunch, but his friendly smile soon sinks into an ashen look of horror. He seats JT and Malcolm at the bar and serves them a discounted lunch, no drinks. 

“Skyla was in here two nights ago with her boyfriend Piers. They seemed off. Neither of them danced. It looked like they were too busy arguing. Usually they join in for Trivia nights.” Santiago back tracks. “I’m not saying that Piers killed her. Just telling you what I saw. Kids will fight over TV shows and online shit, you know what I mean?”

“I’m familiar with subculture,” says Malcolm. 

“Sounds like a typical squabble at the wrong time,” responds JT. “Piers didn’t mention that he and Skyla went out.”

“Piers and Skyla didn’t stay long. None of their little friends joined them either. It probably didn’t feel like a night out for Piers,” says Santiago.

“Do you know anyone who had a special interest in Skyla? Male attention?” asks Malcolm.

“Gotcha, young man. Their friendship circle complained about a cop that bullied them from time to time. These kids kinda were asking for problems, though. They paint on the streets, which gets you the wrong attention. I thought maybe they were bitching over much about Officer Clarke. But that cop is watching them because he catches them and fines them for law breaking.”

Santiago offers them another individual by the name of T.O. “He’s a gangster that robbed them once. Skyla says that T.O. stole her grandmother’s ring. Of course, revenge by T.O’s gang brothers, is why the robbery went unreported.”

While JT puts away lunch, a patron of The Cave sidles up to them. “Hey, are you cops?” It’s a white male who looks twentysomething. “I’m Shai. I overheard you talking about my friend Piers. Saw your badge. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“Someone murdered his girlfriend, Shai,” says Santiago. “If you can think of anyone who would hurt Skyla, you should let the authorities know.”

Shai averts his red-eyed gaze nervously. He has short blond-brown hair, average height, wearing a luxury designer shirt.

“FYI. We don’t care about the marijuana. Just the murder. We’re Major Crimes,” assures Malcolm. “Please feel free to come forward with anything that you think you might know.”

“Is Major Crimes what you call homicide cops?” asks Shai.

“We’re a specialized unit. We think that Skyla’s murder might be related to an ongoing serial attacker who took it too far with her. What you tell us may save a young woman’s life. You’ll probably be hypervigilant from speaking with us. You’ll see suspects left and right. Just give us a call and we’ll look into it,” says JT. He shakes hands with Santiago while Shai shakes his head and wishes them luck.

Officer Blake Clarke is hostile to street artists. “Look, what these kids do is invite in the wrong sort of people in their neighborhood. That’s what graffiti can do. I stop them from tagging for their own good. I don’t have no patience for gangbangers or vandalizers.”

“Yet surveilling them regularly to track their movements and prevent them from creating, censoring them… that goes a step past the line of duty, don’t you think?” questions Malcolm.

“Look, man. Props to you for all you do. Can you tell us if you noticed anything unusual with Skyla or her other artist friends?” says JT, cutting short the impending confrontation.

“They’re all fruit loops,” mutters Officer Clarke. “Go track ‘em down yourselves. They’ll be hanging off an overpass throwing up graffiti like miscreants do. Follow the skunk weed.”

Before they leave Officer Clarke to his soda and chips, he tells them, “If you see a fucker with prison tattoos on his face hanging around, you should bring him in. T.O? Teófila Escajeda. He was hard up for the Skyla chick. Those kids dropped the charges after he took her jewelry and tossed it into the sewer. He openly lusted for her but then she had a boyfriend. Technically, it wasn’t theft.”

JT goes looking for T.O. Meanwhile, Malcolm reaches out to Skyla’s friends, Yogi and Winnie. Yogi, who sounds like she’s from East Harlem, invites Malcolm to speak in person at Gobs Knob AKA The Cave. Yogi is a young black woman who twists her coarse hair into fat buns resembling animal ears. The effect is extremely cute and quirky. Winnie is a tiny, pink thing. She is hopelessly white with ruddiness flushing her cheeks and neck. Winnie’s hair is so blond that she doesn’t have eyebrows and the whitest highlights make her appear bald. Piers brings a large duffle bag which he shoulders easily with his lean muscular build. Coarse hairs darken his jaw, the strain of Skyla’s death showing up in his bare minimum grooming. Santiago serves them drinks. Shai appears later.

Malcolm listens to them commemorating Skyla with stories that paint a young woman with a sense of adventure and an eye for big picture designs. Winnie and Yogi are talking their hearts out and getting Piers to facepalm his forehead with forgotten good times. Shai isn’t as talkative, but his role is clearly to be present with his friend Piers.

After drinks, the kids take Malcolm outside. With Santiago’s permission, they open up the duffle bag and paint on his tavern.

“Spray ‘n’ pray,” grins Yogi. Malcolm tries to back out of it, but they insist that he takes up a can of spray paint.

“I’m really not in the art scene,” says Malcolm.

“C’mon dude. You’re a white guy in a suit. Ain’t nobody arrest you. Do a rainbow. Rainbow’s always good for pride,” advises Winnie. She covers the tavern with poetic script.

Yogi makes Japanese cartoon style food art. “This is the shit me and Skyla ate like all the time together.”

Piers does white clouds and water over lotus flowers and a large anchor. He stops to help Shai who messed up writing Skyla’s name.

“You’re the black koi fish on Skyla’s arm, weren’t you?” asks Malcolm.

“She’s my anchor. I’m sunk without her,” says Piers. He puts a beautiful border around Skyla’s name before he tosses the can into the duffle and heads inside for another drink.

“I’ll go with Piers, keep him out of trouble,” says Shai. He finishes tagging his name in red, a large S within a semi circle.

“Will you really catch the guy who did Skyla? Or will I be seeing her on Cold Case like twenty years later?” asks Winnie.

“We will unmask them. What this person fears most is exposure. For their actual truest self to be seen by the world and judged by their words and petty deeds. I will scare up our cowardly killer,” says Malcolm, facing the image of their friend and the elements of her life lovingly woven by soulmates.

Malcolm pulls out his phone to take a picture. He pauses when he compares thumbnails of the clouds and flowers painted near Johnson Avenue a short walk from Skyla’s final resting place. Skyla died for hours, before anyone realized she hadn’t just disappeared into her art.

“Excuse me, did you paint this? You did the cloud outside of The Cave. But did you also design this?” asks Malcolm, thrusting his phone under Piers’s nose.

“No!” refutes Piers. He asks Malcolm to magnify the image of the radioactive green and atomic pink cloud with the falling white flowers. “But I know who did.” Piers begins sobbing, too choked up to offer further insight. 

Shai rushes to Piers's side, wiping his hands off on his pants from a bathroom trip. “What’s happened?”

Malcolm shows Shai the mural near Skyla’s body. “This picture was taken the day when Skyla’s body was discovered and the call made to police. Do you know the artist?”

Shai looks like he’s seen the mural before, recognition glowing like a cloud.

“It’s Skyla,” answers Shai, his tone flattening. “She’s the artist.”

Yogi and Winnie confirm that Skyla often painted clouds and flowers. All of them demand to know the exact location of what could be Skyla’s final masterpiece. Malcolm promises to give them directions to her mural and says goodbye before they pile up in Shai’s car.

He’s at home in his loft, projecting Skyla’s mural over his fireplace to study it more closely. Malcolm shoots JT a text with plans to re-visit Johnson Avenue and Bogart Street in the morning (in a couple hours, let’s be real) and get pictures in optimal lighting. He’s getting better at communicating with his team. Before, Malcolm would’ve gone off on his own to work independently.

However, when JT and Malcolm show up to study the mural which Skyla last painted, it’s been whited out. White lines snake around the entire length of the wall. The neon glow cloud gone like the breath from a dead woman’s lips. 

“Did you tell those kids where…?” begins JT.

“No! I was planning for us to take high resolution photographs first, for evidence,” says Malcolm.

“I believe you. Damn. They did this girl so dirty, pisses me off,” grumbles JT. He kicks the sidewalk. “The more I see, the less likely it is that Skyla was a stranger kill. That gangster, T.O.? He was in lock up and couldn’t have murdered her.”

“Meaning…. I was with Skyla’s killer last night,” declares Malcolm.

* * *

Officer Clarke was in court, testifying for another crime, eliminating him out as a suspect. JT proves it wasn’t T.O., which is fine with Malcolm because T.O. isn’t a match for his profile. Santiago, the owner of The Cave, has too many customers and employees who vouch for him during the time frame of Skyla freezing to death. Malcolm puts Yogi and Winnie, Skyla’s girlfriends, lowest on the list of suspects. Yogi is higher up when Malcolm learns that she and Piers briefly dated.

Despite Piers’s alibi and the word of two good friends, JT leans into Piers, the boyfriend, who had an extreme reaction to Skyla’s mural. Malcolm doesn’t like Piers for it. Their difference of opinion causes them to split up when they follow Piers and his buddy Shai to a factory rusted to its guts. Piers spots JT from climbing up to tag graffiti on a smoke stack. JT runs after Piers who is out like a gazelle.

Malcolm is left with Shai. He’s surprised when Shai upends the duffle bag full of paint cans.

“No guns, no drugs. I make war with art,” says Shai. “You can arrest me, but you have nothing to hold us.”

Malcolm glances at the spray cans. A radioactive green can and an atomic pink can catch his interest.

“I’m not police. I can’t arrest anyone. How about you help me out, Shai?” says Malcolm.

“I’m not going to turn in my buddy,” says Shai. He plucks up a spray can and writes his name several times in a row. A large atomic pink S inside a semicircle.

“How did you make friends with everyone?” asks Malcolm. “Piers is good enough to get scholarship to a fine arts school if he had ever tried. The girls are different, certainly, but they stand out. You’re not very good. Lettering is weak. Could that be why you erased Skyla’s last mural?”

“You don’t have any proof. Get out of here with your accusations, man,” says Shai.

“I wouldn’t have proof. I’m not Skyla’s murderer. I didn’t watch her for hours on Johnson Avenue. I didn’t spend time with her and ply her with liquor. I certainly didn’t lead her into an empty lot to show her something. You brought booze. She had her supplies,” says Malcolm. “Tell me where you took her bookbag and her hooded sweater.”

Malcolm recalls the paint that stopped at her wrists over her bare arms.

“I wouldn’t have the proof, Shai, because you’re the one who stole her paint,” retorts Malcolm. “And you made it your own.”

Malcolm’s hair over his forehead saves him when the world flashes atomic pink. Shai nearly blinds him with hissed aerosol sprays and Malcolm stumbles forward, going for Shai’s ankles. The paint can scrapes the asphalt before Shai bashes the metal can into Malcolm’s temple. The cylindrical metal rolls as Shai stands over Malcolm, who’s dazed by the many blows.

Though Shai isn’t particularly athletic in build, he grabs Malcolm’s legs and pulls him through a cluttered industrial yard and into the opening of the abandoned factory. Malcolm feebly swings his arms, but he’s too dizzy to regain his balance and stand up to the killer. All he’s aware of is the pain splitting his forehead, the darkness, the cold. Shai takes his coat, suit jacket, and shoes. Malcolm’s socked heel hits the cement as Shai peels off his pants as well. In their isolated surroundings, Malcolm’s cash whispers as it is taken from his wallet.

Malcolm comes to because JT shakes him pretty darn hard. “Bright?! Bright, wake the fuck up!”

Once more, Malcolm is blinded, this time by the flashlight from JT’s phone. 

“Shai. The friend,” mutters Malcolm.

“What did you do, Bright? Why didn’t you call me on your shiny new iPhone?” scolds JT.

“Told him. His art sucked,” answers Malcolm. 

“No one likes a critic,” retorts JT. “If you’re going to comment on something someone made, it should be helpful. And only if they ask you what you think. Don’t trigger them.”

“Shai killed her,” says Malcolm.

“That arrogant bastard,” says JT. “He told me you hurt yourself chasing him in here and when I went in, the door shut and I couldn’t force it open.”

“You believed him?!” Malcolm sits up, groaning from his ringing ears and the veins pounding in his tender head.

“It is you. Also, I heard you were hurt,” says JT. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. The sound echoes in their steel cage. “I think all this metal and concrete is blocking my cell signal. I can’t get my calls or texts through.”

Malcolm is flabbergasted when JT peels off his own winter coat and extends it to him.

“I’m going to have to turn off my flashlight. Save the battery.” Before JT shuts it off, he questions Malcolm. “Why is your hair pink?”

“I took a spray can to the face,” stutters Malcolm, teeth chattering and ears going hot with embarrassment.

“Jesus, Bright. He didn’t hit you in the eyes or mouth, did he?” asks JT before he laughs his ass off.

JT’s smell enfolds him alongside the heat from JT’s coat. For whatever reason, Malcolm expects the detective’s clothes to smell like fries or the air freshener in JT’s car. He gets a little bit of JT’s body spray, but predominantly, it’s a pleasant smell that quite frankly disarms Malcolm. He relaxes into it so he can breathe more of it in. Grateful for the darkness.

“C’mon Bright. We can find a window where some light still coming in. The day is not done,” says JT.

“Okay. I can stand up,” says Malcolm. He cautiously does so, startled when JT’s phone shines on his socked feet. JT grabs his elbow to steady him.

“You must’ve huffed some of them fumes,” says JT. “Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time you chased a serial killer into a dark tunnel?”

JT moves his arm and hugs Malcolm closer to himself. “You do know you can’t that to people, right?”

“I’m trying. I think finding that window is a great idea. Maybe you’ll get signal,” replies Malcolm, stalling as he thinks of a better response. He can’t think beyond the large hand around his arm and the fluttering in his chest from sustained contact with another person. Especially someone who is tougher and more solid. JT doesn’t complain when Malcolm needs to stop and lean on him because of the head injury.

“You’re alright,” says JT, encouraging Malcolm to take smaller steps and go at a pace that won’t make him throw up.

“It’s not actually too painful?” says Malcolm, half-convinced. “I hate being disoriented.”

“Having one’s equilibrium disturbed is no cake walk,” says JT. “If we look on the bright side, at least we’re not in a hole with bombs coming down.”

They come upon a barely lit quadrant of the factory. As JT had hoped for, the window allows in the afternoon light. However, sunset is imminent. They won’t be able to see a thing without draining critical battery life. Malcolm and JT can see their breaths clouding in the wintry cold.

JT finds a stack of wood pallets and kicks at it before sitting. Though the boards creak forebodingly, he is able to remain sitting up and off the hard floor. Malcolm hesitantly joins JT, and only because his body aches from lying down half naked on the filthy concrete before JT found him.

“I was kind of hoping that it was the maniac beating on women,” says JT. “And not an actual friend of the victim.”

“I was leaning into the bartender at that bar place,” says Malcolm. “Santiago. He had all of their trust. If Skyla was comfortable painting around him. But then Shai made more sense. Everyone in their circle liked him even though he wasn’t some great artist. The disparity in their skill levels would have fed into Shai’s inferiority complex. It’s really unfortunate that an objectively more talented and well-loved person, a woman, triggered his inner rage which had been building since adolescence. In the flip of a switch, the object of admiration became… the object of his ridicule. Shai made it so.”

“I can’t stand men who are bitches,” says JT. “If Shai had an issue with someone, a direct conversation would’ve smoothed over countless misunderstandings and hurt feelings. People like that gossip while putting up a…. a….”

“A likeable and seemingly inclusive persona. An acceptable façade to garner popularity by which to surreptitiously peddle their abuse,” finishes Malcolm. He’s icy all over when JT reaches for him again.

“Thanks,” says Malcolm, laughing a little to disguise his tense body language.

“Let me guess, you’re not a hugger,” says JT. His grip on Malcolm feels perfect, a happy place between too tight and limp noodle. “Do you mind it?”

“No, I like it too much.” The admission slips out of Malcolm because, oh yeah, head injury.

“How have you been, Bright?” asks JT. His concern sounds so warm and earnest that Malcolm wants to lean in and be honest with him.

“You mean, like, since Watkins?”

“Level with me. As much as you can, anyway,” responds JT. His fingers inadvertently press against Malcolm’s shaking hand.

“My hand aches when it gets cold like this,” says Malcolm. “Shatter your metacarpals once, and wow, you win a lifetime supply of pain.”

“Well, don’t go cutting off your hand,” quips JT. Malcolm laughs again, thrilled when JT rubs over his (JT’s) coat sleeve. His cheek, rounded from a smile, presses into JT’s side. JT is roasting warm.

“God, you’re like a furnace,” says Malcolm.

“Yeah, I run hot,” says JT.

Malcolm’s lip tucks under his teeth. His right hand follows an evil path to JT’s shirt. He feels exhilarated as though he were sticking his hand into a fire. With JT’s palm keeping his hand right where it is.

“Bright,” says JT. 

Malcolm tips his head back, drinking in how JT looks over him. He knows JT was checking out his ass when he was kneeling at the crime scene in South Bronx. Malcolm meets JT’s eyes which are lowered and focused on his bitten lip.

“Don’t say what I look like,” says Malcolm, conscious of his throbbing face, as blood rushes through his head.

“You look all fucked up,” says JT. He holds the back of Malcolm’s hair, in slow appreciative strokes.

“Please, I’m so cold,” begs Malcolm. He groans suddenly when JT slips a hand inside the coat. JT goes right for the bulge firming up in Malcolm’s briefs. Malcolm rocks into JT’s touch, wood pallet creaking when he bucks a few times.

JT tugs at Malcolm’s briefs. Then Malcolm’s cock springs to life from the opening in his underwear. Malcolm groans again from the smooth lining of JT’s coat fluttering around his cock as JT squeezes and rubs his cock. “Oh fuck, JT. You’ve got me so hard.”

“Do you fantasize about this situation? Is this exactly what you want?” JT’s nose and lips leaves a scorching trail from Malcolm’s jaw to his throat. Jerking him off. Making him feel every inch of himself.

“I want more, JT. I wish you could choke me and fuck my mouth,” moans Malcolm, panting as JT plays with the head of his cock.

“Fuck. You know I can’t,” says JT. His hand speeds up urgently on Malcolm’s cock. “How about I blow your mind, baby?”

Malcolm barely manages a yes before thick fingers press his tongue. He almost comes thinking about how thick JT’s cock must be. Malcolm sucks for what he’s worth, makes his mouth water, and drools slick all over JT’s fingers. JT switches hands and uses his wet fingers to clench and roll and twist over and over and tighter. The wet noises of JT getting him off echo around them, joined by Malcolm’s lustful cries.

After a few flicks where Malcolm is extremely sensitive, Malcolm yelps and comes, sending heat all through his body, all the way to the mended articulations of his hand and then his toes almost frostbitten from the cement. He is practically steaming, drowning in the smooth folds of JT’s oversized coat.

JT bats away his hand when Malcolm reaches for him. “Don’t you think you should clean me off at least?”

“Yes, I should,” says Malcolm, shivering with delight. JT’s thumb strokes his ear. Malcolm laps at JT’s hot skin, almost purring when he tastes himself. His dick leaks when JT tastes his sloppy mouth. JT’s arm almost swallows him up as Malcolm is slowly crushed in a deep kiss.

Malcolm pants hotly when JT pulls away. JT’s laugh ripples through his body, re-igniting his quickened blood.

“You can have more when we get out of here,” says JT. “Let me buy you a drink before I fuck you.”

“Absolutely,” gushes Malcolm. “You both still do Friday night pool?”

“Yeah. We can do you, too,” says JT.

* * *

One of JT’s texts to Gil gets through while Malcolm and JT remain trapped in an unknown location.

Gil and Dani work on locating Piers and the so-called friend who killed the love of his life. At first, Piers’s known friends turn away the police. Then Gil advises Dani to show her face at the bar where the victim and her friends regularly frequented. Once Dani speaks with Santiago, the bartender offers to help.

From there, the victim’s girlfriends, who previously denied everything to NYPD, quietly inform Santiago that Piers and Shai are laying low in Skyla’s apartment across the hall from Yogi and Winnie who are also roommates.

Yogi gets Piers to tell her about the policeman he narrowly escaped. She relays the information via text to Santiago. Gil goes to set up the arrest while Dani and a uni search the area for the rundown factory. The wet paint graffiti’d over the chained up steel doors tips off Dani.

Gil is relieved to see JT pull up with Malcolm and hurry out of the car. Until he gets a good look at Malcolm’s wardrobe change.

“Why is your hair pink? Are those my sneakers?” asks Gil.

“Uh, yes and yes. I needed your clothes,” says Malcolm, self-consciously smoothing back his pink-streaked hair. The blue NYPD sweatshirt peeks out of an oversized black coat.

“We were in a hurry. Did you get him?” asks Malcolm.

“Just made the collar. They’ll be coming down,” says Gil. “Thanks to these ladies.”

Yogi and Winnie have their blankets caped around their pajamas. They confront their treacherous friend, Shai. Piers is released from his handcuffs, but he faces Skyla’s killer like one trapped in a nightmare.

“How dare you do this to me? Do this to us?” demands Piers.

“We invited you into our way of life and you took our girl away. Why?!” rejoins Yogi.

“After we supported you. We thought you supported what we did collectively,” yells Winnie.

“You fools keep doing the same thing. I get bored running around the projects with you. I’d be so much more excited about new art coming out if they were actually like. New. With like. New styles. Do artists not like. Look at any other art that’s like out there? Or is that where you get your ideas cause this is like the third or fourth piece I've seen that’s been done already,” rants Shai. The revelation of their true nature makes them unravel and come off as more than a little unhinged, disconnected from real people wounded by their destructive compulsions.

“Mark my words, bro. We will erase you from this city. If it means years washing off your tags, your tarnished name,” Piers vows. “Or creating nuances of beautiful things on top of your bullshit. The places where your evil touched, we will make it better than before, filled with symbols of love.”

“That’s what our friend, our best friend, only ever wanted. She would want us to keep the peace. She would want us to choose love,” cries Winnie.

“Bye, Felicia,” says Yogi. “Seriously, forget you.”

“Is it me or was that arrest extra and real?” comments JT.

“You ever heard of the Latin expression _damnatio memoriae_?” asks Malcolm. “The Romans would alter their documents and statues and records of someone they choose to forget. Much like what Skyla's friends will do to her killer.”

After an intense showdown like that, JT offers to drive Malcolm to a trauma center to get his head injury looked at. Surprisingly, no concussion. Although Malcolm will need to ice the swelling for a couple days. The radio is shut off until next shift. Only music from JT’s playlist fills the car.

JT doesn’t come up for a nightcap when drops off Malcolm at his loft. “I want to see Tally and talk to her. Make sure she’s okay.”

“It’s perfectly fine. Won’t be the last time that it’s just me and my hand.” Malcolm wriggles out of JT’s coat with a smirk. JT throws his coat in the back of his car.

“Does it still hurt?” asks JT. His gentle hold swamps Malcolm’s smaller hand.

“Of course. But right now, I wouldn’t say it’s bad,” says Malcolm. He follows up his little white lie with a very big kiss on JT’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> The sadistic maniac behind the hazing attacks is still pending investigation under Sergeant Moore. That is a whole other fic that I don't want to write. Let's just assume that Malcolm's profile eventually leads to the arrest and he gets to bone the Tarmels.


End file.
